


Knowing Me, Knowing You

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Exes, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Roommates, SLIGHTEST bit of angst JUST A DASH, also this is basically a The Break-Up au so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 23:13:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9094906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: In hindsight, staying in the apartment he shares with his ex probably isn't the best idea Bellamy's ever had. Probably not his worst either, to be fair.   Or, the one where Bellamy and Clarke break up and, instead of moving out, somehow find themselves in a heated prank war.   [written for Bellarke Secret Santa 2016!]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [contraryrhythm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contraryrhythm/gifts).



> happy holidays, everybody!
> 
> hope you enjoy my little BSS gift for Gwen (contraryrhythm on ao3/[tumblr](http://contraryrhythm.tumblr.com))! (also i'm sorry Gwen that this ended up being at least 4k longer than i intended.)
> 
>  
> 
> (title is indeed from the ABBA song bc idk why but all their songs kinda sound vaguely Christmassy lmao)

 

 

 

 

 

 

In hindsight, staying in the apartment he shares with his ex probably isn't the best idea Bellamy’s ever had.

 

Probably not his worst either, to be fair.

 

But he guesses that in an extremely roundabout sort of way, he's the one to blame for his current situation.

 

“I said,” he repeats through gritted teeth, his grip tightening on his phone, “I need you to come to my place, and let me out of my bathroom.”

 

“I don't get it,” Miller says blankly. “How are you even locked in your own bathroom? Don't bathrooms lock from the inside? My bathroom locks from the inside. Isn't that kind of, like, a key feature of bathrooms?”

 

Bellamy squeezes his eyes shut, blowing an exasperated breath out through his clenched teeth. “Are you just going to keep saying ‘bathroom’, or are you gonna fuckin’ come and _help me_?”

 

But it's only when Miller is finally standing outside the bathroom door, clicking the lock free and letting the door swing open that things _really_ get awkward.

 

“Oh, whoa,” Miller says, his brows shooting up as he stands in the doorway. “Dude, you're naked.”

 

“I'm aware,” Bellamy snaps, stalking past his friend and towards his room. “But thank you, Miller. Thank you for pointing that out.”

 

“You know, you should really think about keeping a few towels in your bathroom,” Miller calls as he ambles after his extremely irate, extremely naked best friend. “I keep towels in my bathroom, and this _never_ happens to me.”

 

“Stop saying ‘bathroom’,” Bellamy commands irritably, striding out of the room as he pulls a T-shirt over his head, legs already encased in a worn pair of sweatpants. “And where the fuck else do you think I keep my towels, man?”

 

“I feel like you're conveniently forgetting that I just skipped out on coffee with my boyfriend for the sole purpose of bailing your naked ass out of your own bathroom,” Miller says mildly, trailing after Bellamy and down the hallway.

 

Bellamy sighs as he leads the way into the kitchen. “ _Thank you_ for bailing me out of my own bathroom,” he says, his tone considerably less snappy. He yanks open the fridge door. “Also, stop saying ‘bathroom’, _please_.”

 

“You're welcome, and I'll think about it,” Miller says graciously. He pauses, brows knitting together at the sight of Bellamy wrenching the cap off a milk carton, bringing it up to his mouth and starting to _chug_. “Uh… _how_ many days have you been trapped in there, exactly?”

 

Bellamy holds up a finger in Miller’s direction, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he continues to drain the contents of the carton. A few seconds later, he drops the container from his lips, taking a large, desperately needed gulp of air before turning to Miller.

 

“Soy,” he grunts, turning the carton to show the other man the label.

 

Miller shakes his head, both eyes firmly closed. “ _Please_ tell me you're not _still_ hung up on this stupid thing.”

 

“I’ll stop when she stops,” Bellamy says grimly, recapping the carton before sticking it back into the fridge.

 

“This is not cute, dude,” Miller says, still shaking his head as Bellamy moves to the sink to rinse out his mouth. “It was barely cute when Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn were doing it. In fact, it was kind of terrible even when Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn were doing it.”

 

“Hey, _I_ didn't wait till she was in the shower to steal all the towels and lock _her_ in the bathroom!”

 

“No, but you did that cling wrap over the doorway shit on Monday when you knew she was running late,” Miller points out, arms folded across his chest. “And she was running late _because_ you stole her phone and shut off all her alarms. Remember that?”

 

“She filled all my Oreos with _toothpaste_ , Miller,” Bellamy snaps, grabbing an empty glass and sticking it under the tap. “Do you realise how _vicious_ that is? She literally scraped the cream filling out of my Oreos, _one by one_ , spread _toothpaste_ all over them, left them in the fridge to harden overnight, and then put them _back_ in the damn packet, and sealed it back up with glue. My fuckin’ _Oreos_ , Miller!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, your fuckin’ three-dollar cookies, dude,” Miller says, scrubbing a palm over his eyes. “ _Jesus_. You know, I seriously thought you guys would have been way over this ridiculousness by now.”

 

Bellamy scoffs, swallowing his mouthful of water. “What are you talking about? You _helped_.”

 

“Yeah, like, the first _week_ ,” Miller says, incredulous. “It’s been a whole _month_ , man. One full month since you guys broke up, and you're _still_ pulling seventh grade pranks on each other. How are you _still_ pulling seventh grade pranks on each other?”

 

"Like I said—"

 

"Yeah, all right," Miller cuts in, waving a dismissive hand. "You'll stop when she stops." He shakes his head. "You know, this would all just be so much easier on _all_ of us if one of you just moved the fuck out already."

 

"I'm not going anywhere," Bellamy announces, stubborn. "I'm not letting her _win_."

 

Miller scoffs. "Yeah, because both of you are having _so_ much fun with this stupid ass game."

 

He turns on his heel and starts towards the door, and then pauses, swivelling back around to arch a brow at Bellamy, one hand propped on his hip.

 

“You know you could have just thrown out the milk, right? You didn't have to _drink_ it.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

In Bellamy's honest defence, he's not a _complete_ idiot.

 

He knows there are better methods to conflict resolution out there than the one he and Clarke have somehow fallen into. In fact, probably literally _any_ method would be better than the current one they're both employing.

 

But, to tell the complete and absolute truth — he _genuinely_ could _not_ give a shit.

 

It's not like he's never gone through a break-up before. He knows what break-ups are supposed to look like.

 

You and your former lover are supposed to avoid each other for the next few weeks, maybe the next few months. You and your former lover aren't expected to make awkward attempts at conversation when you bump into each other in public, but it's generally encouraged to do a small wave or nod of acknowledgement, just to be polite. You and your former lover should also maybe send each other awkwardly stilted _'happy birthday'_ and _'Merry Christmas'_ text messages over the next one to three years as a gesture of goodwill, depending on the length and intensity of the relationship.

 

He doesn't really know what it is about this particular break-up, but the awkward, self-conscious scale is set pretty close to fucking _zero_.

 

With his other ex-girlfriends, he has a decently solid track record of moving forward. He's all but lapsed into vaguely polite estrangement with Roma and Mel, content to dwell in mutual ignorance with both of them, save for the occasional Facebook photo like. It got a little dicey with Echo, but by now, enough time has passed for him to feel amiable enough about the whole thing. He'd probably even say he's _friends_ with her, at this point.

 

But with Clarke, it feels like they've both teleported themselves all the way back to the starting line of their acquaintanceship — a relationship dubbed by Raven as 'a fucking frenemy _warzone_ '. It's a connection characterised almost entirely by acerbic insults, childish pranks, and lengthy, heated arguments ranging in degrees of loudness but otherwise relatively consistent in terms of bitterness.

  
And, as the word 'warzone' implies… it's not pretty.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Contrary to popular belief, he's not _completely_ immature, either.

 

He knows the prank war is stupid.

 

He's _absolutely certain_ Clarke knows it, too.

 

But for some reason, neither of them can fucking _help it_.

 

He's not really sure what the motivation is for Clarke. Hell, he's not even sure what it is that's compelling _him_ to pull half the juvenile shit he's pulled in the last several weeks.

 

There's just something about spending the time to go over all the things he knows about Clarke, all the little bits and pieces that he's collected over the years, every little tidbit of information he's ever picked up that relates to her in any way. He gets to turn it all over and over in his head, taking his time to come up with something that's sure to trip her up, or, at the very least, royally piss her off.

 

There's even something about the thrill of sneaking into their — he means, _her_ bedroom to replace the bottle of water she keeps on the nightstand with a bottle of vinegar, or to swap out all her clothes with a mountain of gaudy fur coats from the thrift store, or to steal all of the sheets off their — _her_ bed.

 

There's even something about ending up with honey all over his hair instead of his usual shampoo, or spending a full day _technologically crippled_ because she's stolen his iPhone off his nightstand and left him a fucking _flip phone_ for the day. (On the bright side, his number was already programmed in, along with all of his saved contacts. It was almost courteous of her, really.)

 

Whatever the prank is, no matter how small, it always manages to rile him up. He gets mad, _really_ mad. Most of the time, he has to _physically stop himself_ from outright screaming in frustration, and sometimes he _really_ wants to punch something, inanimate object or otherwise.

 

Nevertheless, with every single time Clarke manages to pull one over on him, it doesn't escape his notice that there's always the tiniest sliver of an undercurrent of something in his gut, something that feels maybe a _little bit_ like pride. Look, his ego is durable enough for him to admit that there's a certain _finesse_ to Clarke's pranks, one that he has yet to match. (Although he's learned not to _admit_ that in front of anyone else — at least not after Miller had rolled his eyes so far back into his head that Bellamy had actually been worried for a second before demanding to know why he and Clarke couldn't _"just have hate sex already, like NORMAL people do"_.)

 

It's weird, and ridiculous, and, as they've been informed on more than one occasion by more than one mutual friend, _totally_ _insane_.

 

All the same, he gets the strangest sense that as bizarrely thrilling as all of this is for him, it's just as much so for her.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

He and Clarke definitely don't _like_ each other, but they're not fucking _animals_.

 

There are lines to respect, especially when they're both still firmly attached to the same friend group.

 

For example, there's the issue of forcing their friends to pick sides. Miller is Bellamy's, Raven is Clarke's. That's the way it's been, ever since before they even met each other. Thus, that is the way it shall remain.

 

Everyone else, though? Everyone else is Switzerland, and both Bellamy and Clarke would rather choke to death on Jasper and Monty's homemade moonshine than allow themselves to taint that.

 

There are logistical issues to consider, of course. They never join in on a group activity unless there's a bare minimum of at least three other people already involved. They make sure to position themselves so that they have at least two friends in between them whenever they're seated at any table. They consciously gravitate towards different groups for game and trivia nights. They _never_ leave a group hangout at the same time, because that would mean having to walk home together.

 

Of course, all of these are merely preventive measures. They aren't always one hundred percent effective, but they _do_ significantly shrink the chances of he and Clarke ending up in a heated yelling match in front of their friends.

 

Most of the time, at least.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

One evening, Clarke walks through the front door and flings an envelope at him without a single word.

 

"You could've taken my fucking eye out," he snaps, grabbing hold of the envelope from where it's landed on the keyboard of his open laptop.

 

"Shame," she retorts, and he knows she's referring to the fact that she _didn't_. She yanks the fridge door open, retrieving the first beer bottle within reach. "Your turn to pay the water bill."

 

"No way, Your Highness," he says, shaking his head. "Not after that stupid water balloon prank you pulled last week. I'm not fucking paying for _that_ , _and_ a new mattress."

 

She shrugs flippantly around a healthy pull from the bottle. "It's your turn," she repeats breezily, turning on her heel to flounce out of the kitchen.

 

 

 

The next day, twenty pizzas topped with nothing but anchovies show up at Clarke's workplace, all already charged to her credit card.

 

She texts him a photo of the pizza boxes stacked high on her desk, her other hand positioned in front of the camera with the middle finger raised high. _'youre such a fucking CHILD,'_ her accompanying caption reads.

 

He smirks triumphantly to himself, already pulling up the empty text box to reply.

 

_'Takes one to know one.'_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"You know I love you, right?"

 

He frowns suspiciously at his sister, his fork pausing to hover in mid-air over his eggs. "What's happening? I sense a trick of some kind. Is this a trick?"

 

Octavia sighs exasperatedly, throwing her napkin at him. "I'm not even allowed to say 'I love you' to _my_ _own brother_?"

 

He doesn't let up on the apprehensive squint of his eyes, not even pulling away to retrieve the napkin. "'I love you' is fine. ' _You know_ I love you' is set-up." He points his fork at her. "The question is, _what_ exactly is it a set-up _for_?"

 

"Still not entirely sure you're not certifiable," Octavia grumbles, picking her fork up to resume work on her own plate. "I'm just _saying_ , Bell. I know that I can be dramatic, and overreact, and be _way_ too much in general — but you know that whatever I say, it's because I love you, right?"

 

He presses his lips together, considering his sister with a small frown. "What is this about, exactly?"

 

She sets her fork back down, her sharp green gaze zeroing in on his. "I really think you should move out."

 

He groans, shaking his head dismissively as he turns back to his food. "Jesus, O, you fuckin' scared me. Don't _do_ that."

 

"I'm _serious_ ," Octavia insists, leaning forward on her elbows. "For real, Bell, I'm not kidding around here. You need to move out."

 

He huffs in pure disdain. "And I _told_ you, I _can't_. She's _not_ winning this one."

 

" _Bell_." He looks up to Octavia's face, her brows drawn together in concern. "This isn't funny anymore. I'm _worried_ about you."

 

"Me?" he asks, both brows shooting up. "What's there to worry about? I'm fine, aren't I?"

 

"Well, for starters," Octavia says carefully, "in case you haven't noticed, you've spent the last forty minutes or so going on and on about Clarke."

 

"Yeah," he retorts. "Because living with her is a fucking _menace_. Did I tell you about her little stunt with the eggs?"

 

Octavia sighs. "Yes, Bell, I know all about how she boiled all your eggs before sticking them back in the carton. But then again, that's all the more reason for you to move out, isn't it?"

 

He shakes his head violently. "Fuck that, my next move is gonna be even bigger and better than some goddamn hard boiled eggs. Believe me, O, it's gonna be epic. I've already bought all the mayo I'm ever gonna need—"

 

"What for."

 

He pauses, thrown off rhythm by his sister's unusually flat tone.

 

"For my next prank," he says slowly, looking up at his sister's hard expression. "For the prank I'm gonna pull on Clarke."

 

"What _for_."

 

He blinks, his confusion intensifying with every second under Octavia's merciless glare. "So that I can _beat_ her. So that I _win_ this stupid game."

 

" _What for_."

 

He sets down his fork, leaning against the back of the booth in surrender. "Okay, what the hell is going on? I just _told_ you what for."

 

She shakes her head, impatient. "No, Bell. _What for_ ? As in, _what_ the _fuck_ are you still holding _on_ to all of this _for_?"

 

His jaw works itself open and closed for a long beat, blinking owlishly. "That's not—"

 

Octavia throws up a hand, silencing him before he can even blink. "Don't give me that _shit_ , Bell. It's been nearly two goddamn months since you and Clarke broke up, and both of you _still_ can't pull it together long enough to actually _do_ something about it. If this was anyone else, if this was _literally anyone else_ on the _planet_ , you would've let it all go and moved on _weeks_ ago." She leans forward, a hint of steel glinting in the clear green depths of her eyes. "So, I'm gonna ask you again — _what the fuck are you still holding on for?_ "

 

He stares at his freakishly intimidating baby sister for a good, long moment before exhaling heavily, scrubbing a palm over his eyes. "Okay, O. Why don't you just come out and say whatever it is that you're trying to say?"

 

Octavia cocks her head, jaw clenching tautly. "I think you have the emotional competence and self-awareness of a celery stick. I also think you'd rather be miserable with Clarke than not be with her at all." She pauses, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "And, for what it is or isn't worth, I think Clarke feels the same way about you."

 

He's already shaking his head before she can finish. "That's not what this is about. We _broke up_ , O. This isn't us trying to stay together." He clears his throat, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "Even if it was, don't you think we'd find some _better_ way to do that than a bunch of fights and juvenile pranks?"

 

Octavia shrugs, completely unruffled. "You tell me."

 

An awkward silence stretches between them, the atmosphere thick and stuffy with tension.

 

It's broken a brief minute later, when the waitress comes around to refill their coffee mugs. After that, Octavia seems to capitulate for the time being, abruptly restarting the conversation with something about Lincoln's last work trip.

 

He goes along with it, grateful for the reprieve. But for some reason, he finds it difficult to finish the rest of his breakfast after that, his appetite having all but evaporated into thin air.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"But you _hate_ Tinder," Miller says blankly, blinking over the rim of his half-finished beer. "You make fun of Raven and Monty all the time for using it. You made fun of me for _downloading_ it. I didn't even _use_ it yet!"

 

"Times have changed," Bellamy grunts carelessly. "I've grown, I've matured, and so has my personal outlook on life."

 

" _Fuck_ your personal outlook on life," Miller counters instantly, before narrowing his gaze on his best friend. "The hell are you trying to do, Blake? What kind of game are you running?"

 

Bellamy sighs, clicking his phone off and tucking it back into his pocket. "Not a game, Miller. I'm just trying to do what any normal person would do. You know, get back out there. See other people. Move on."

 

Miller frowns at him, contemplative. "Clarke know about this?"

 

Bellamy tries to brush off his startled jerk as a cough, one hand raking self-consciously through his hair. "Why the fuck would Clarke need to know about this?"

 

Miller shrugs, deliberately off-handed. "I didn't say Clarke _needs_ to know. Just wondering if she _does_ know. Like, if you maybe mentioned you were gonna start dating around again. Out loud. In her presence."

 

"No," Bellamy says, a little _too_ forcefully. He leans back, shoving down the tight ball of _something_ rising up in his throat. "She doesn't— look, we don't have to fucking _report_ our shit to each other, all right? Our relationship is _over_. _Done_. We're both single individuals. We're both allowed to date whoever the hell we want."

 

"Uh huh."

 

Bellamy's head snaps up, his gaze narrowing warily. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 

Miller gives him this _look_ , the one that always makes Bellamy feel like an errant dog who's been caught in a part of the house he knows he's not allowed in.

 

"Nothing," his best friend finally says, raising his beer mug for an innocuous sip. "Cool."

 

 

 

He comes home to find all of his _Vikings_ episodes deleted off the DVR.

 

"I'm surprised you didn't delete _Drunk History_ , too," he says dryly, throwing a cushion at Clarke.

 

She tosses it right back, teeth flashing in a wicked grin. "Why the fuck would I do that? I love _Drunk History_."

 

He flops down onto the couch, and doesn't bother telling her that he'd already deleted all her _Bob's Burgers_ episodes off the machine two days ago.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

Bellamy's first Tinder date is with some guy named Roan.

 

The guy is hot, but a little too _intense_. At the end of the night, Roan drives him home, and they make out in the car for a bit. It's fun and all, but when Roan asks if he can come up, Bellamy finds himself saying 'no' before he can even really think about it.

 

He doesn't bother bother texting Roan again. (Roan doesn't bother texting, either.)

 

His second date is with a girl named Luna. She's beautiful, and smart, but she's also a little too _detached_. Somehow, Bellamy gets the distinct impression that she's too busy having a whole conversation with herself in her own head to really invest any sincere effort in any genial getting-to-know-you exchanges. It kind of makes him feel bad, actually — like he's done something wrong simply by distracting her from her own thoughts.

 

After dinner, he leans in to give her a quick peck on the cheek. He's not even sure if she notices.

 

He deletes her number the minute he gets home.

 

He gives up for a few days, half-heartedly swiping his way through Tinder whenever he gets a few minutes to himself. He doesn't bother actually talking to anyone, though, sticking with closed-off, one-word responses (if he does respond at all).

 

But then a week later, he grits his teeth, opens the app back up, and resolutely starts up conversation with the first person he happens to match with.

 

Gina turns out to be relatively normal, thank God. She's pretty, but not in the way that he's used to, with her larger eyes, rounder nose, fuller lips, and darker hair.

 

Her wit is slightly on the dry, teasing side, which is right up his alley, but it's not exactly cutting. She's got a lot less of an edge to her personality, too — more grounded earth than flinting steel.

 

But she's _fun_ , and he actually finds himself having a really good time talking to her. Good enough that he's already blurting out an invitation for a second date before their first is even over.

 

She smiles, tilting her head like she's considering some private joke, before telling him that she would love to see him again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

They go out on two more dates.

 

By the end of the third one, Bellamy starts feeling like maybe he's got this moving on shit under control.

 

In fact, he feels so good about it that he actually starts _humming_ to himself. It's a couple hours before he's supposed to meet Gina, but since they're planning to just have drinks, he's in the kitchen fixing himself a quick dinner. He feels good, sure, but he's not about to ingest alcohol on an empty stomach.

 

Which is how Clarke comes home to him bopping to a non-existent beat as he pushes a bunch of chopped veggies around in a frying pan.

 

She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him on her way to the fridge. "Did you do something to my wine?"

 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. "Your precious wine is safe, _princess_."

 

She spends an extra beat inspecting the bottle anyway, glancing at him warily when she finds nothing amiss. "Well, you did something to _something_ of mine. What's with the _humming_?"

 

He shrugs, grinding pepper over the gently sizzling pan. "Sometimes I hum."

 

She squints skeptically at him. "Sure, Blake," she mutters, unscrewing the cap off of her wine bottle and reaching for a fresh glass.

 

He arches a quizzical brow at the double dose she pours herself. "Long day?"

 

She sighs. "You could say that. You know how Anya rides me pretty hard at work to begin with?" At his responding nod, she shakes her head. "Well, today was less of a riding lesson, and more of just a flat-out beat-down."

 

"Shit," he says sympathetically. "Well, that's _kind of_ good, right? She only gives this shit to people she trusts, doesn't she?"  

 

She takes a generous gulp of wine, humming as she swallows it down. "I guess so. Still, it's just stressful to—"

 

Breaking off abruptly, her gaze snaps sharply to him.

 

"Right," she announces, her voice modulating strangely as she slowly backs out of the kitchen.

 

He tears his eyes away from his dinner, turning to frown after her. "Hey, your wine—"

 

"It's fine!" she yells back shortly. "I'll get it later!"

 

For the next two hours, she doesn't emerge from her room. He spies her wineglass on his way to the door, still full and sitting out on the kitchen counter, untouched.

 

 

 

"Are you all right?"

 

Bellamy starts, looking up from his phone.

 

"Yeah," he says quickly, turning the device face down onto the bar top. Shit, he sounds guilty. Why does he sound _guilty_?

 

"Yeah," he repeats after clearing his throat, pulling up a smile as he turns back to Gina. "Why, what's up?"

 

Gina arches a slim brow. "Are you sure? Because you've been pretty much glued to your phone all night. I wouldn't normally be offended," she explains with a small smile, "but it's just not very much like you. Everything okay?"

 

He blows out a tight breath, his fingers curling around his whiskey glass. "Yeah, it's— no, sorry. It's not very good date behaviour, is it? Sorry."

 

He winces at the unnecessary repetition of the apology, averting his gaze when Gina's brow lifts even higher.

 

"Bellamy," she says, firmly but gently. "It's all right, really. What is it?"

 

He presses his lips into a thin line, warning himself not to unload it all on her.

 

"It's my roommate, actually," he says in a rush, resisting the urge to slap his palm to his forehead in exasperation. "She had kind of a shitty day. Not her first, obviously — but then she got all weird out of nowhere, and basically locked herself in her room. I don't know, I just thought maybe she'd—"

 

What? Text him? Call him? Exactly _what_ had he been expecting?

 

"—need something," he finishes. Shit, even he's aware of how lame it sounds.

 

He doesn't look up for Gina's reaction, keeping his eyes fixed safely on his drink.

 

Gina hums, stirring her margarita with a little straw. "This is Clarke we're talking about, right?" She pauses, setting the straw down. "Your ex?"

 

"Yeah," he says, a little surprised that she remembers. It's not like he brings up Clarke all that often.

 

Gina grins at his bemused expression. "You talk about her a fair bit," she explains.

 

He exhales, but underneath the tension, it feels more wistful than resentful. "Sounds about right," he mutters resignedly, lifting his glass for another swig of whiskey.

 

She smiles, leaning her chin into her palm like he's just made a joke. "I like you, Bellamy."

 

He looks up, frowning in surprise. "Oh. Uh… thanks?" He shakes his head violently at the grin stretching slowly across her face. "No, _fuck_ — ah, I mean— I like you, too."

 

She nods, a single, assured dip of her chin. "I know."

 

"Okay." He drums his fingers on the countertop, blinking blankly at her. "Uh. Glad we're on the same page, then."

 

She shrugs lightly, leaning forward in her chair. "I don't know about _that_. I mean, I'm pretty convinced on my end that it would probably be for the best if we stopped seeing each other."

 

He nods, and keeps nodding right up until a full two seconds after she finishes speaking before his brain finally catches up.

 

"Wait," he says, blinking hard. "Did you just—"

 

“I think,” she says, looking at him steadily, “that we both deserve to be with someone who isn’t just a distraction for us.”

 

Well. _Fuck_.

 

He shakes his head, shifting in his seat. “No, you’re not— this isn’t just a _distraction_ for me, Gina. Really, it’s not.”

 

She tilts her head appraisingly. “I don’t think you _mean_ it to be. I don’t think you _want_ it to be, either.”

 

He stares at her, confused. “Then why—”

 

She places a hand on his arm, giving him another patient smile. “Think of it this way. You like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, right?” She waits for his hesitant nod before continuing. “Okay, well, let’s say that one day, someone introduces you to peanut butter and _honey_ sandwiches. And you _like_ the new combination. You enjoy it. You certainly don’t have any _complaints_ eating it. But all the same, you wake up the next morning, and you find yourself going right back to P.B. and J.” She squints at him, encouraging. “Do you see what I mean?”

 

He scrunches his nose in cautious puzzlement. “Because I’m more used to jelly than honey?”

 

Gina laughs, taking her hand off his arm to brush a stray curl out of her eyes. “Because,” she says, sparks of amusement still dancing in her eyes, “no matter how good peanut butter tastes with honey, or Nutella, or whatever else, P.B. and J. is what makes you feel like you’re _home_. Because, for _you_ , peanut butter just _belongs_ with jelly.”

 

He opens and closes his mouth. And then he does it again, just for good measure.

 

“Okay,” he says slowly, looking up at Gina. “There’s some kind of metaphor in there. I’m _pretty_ sure.”

 

Gina grins, reaching for her glass before holding it up for him to clink his to. “And _I’m_ sure you’ll figure it out soon enough, Bellamy. By the way, next round’s on you.”

 

 

 

The next morning, he ends up with salt in his coffee instead of sugar.

 

He spends the next thirty seconds bent over the sink, coughing violently as he dumps the rest of his mugful down the drain.

 

Clarke doesn't say anything when he shoots her a baleful glare. She does throw him a saucy smirk as she practically skips out of the kitchen, snickering as she goes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“I hate dating,” Raven announces with no preamble, shoving her way into their booth. “I hate dating, and I hate people, and I hate romance. Romance is dead.”

 

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Monty says idly, but immediately shuts up when he finds himself on the receiving end of a Raven Reyes glare.

 

“That bad?” Clarke asks, her brows furrowing in concern.

 

“This guy was just so fucking _slimy_ ,” Raven grumbles, shuddering at the apparent memory. “Also, he seemed to be under the impression that by the end of the night, I’d be begging for his dick in my mouth. By the way, all this was on the sole basis of me swiping right on his profile pic — which, might I add, was _very_ misleading.”

 

“I can beat him up,” Jasper volunteers instantly, extending a fist and shaking it over the table. He winds up looking more like he’s threatening Raven than offering to protect her.

 

“I can watch Jasper beat him up,” Miller follows dryly. “Or try to, at least.”

 

Jasper sticks his tongue out at Miller before turning back to Raven. “Seriously — name, address. I’ll do it.”

 

Raven sighs, but the beginnings of a smile are already tugging on her lips. “Thanks, Jas, but if I wanted him black and blue, he’d _be_ black and blue by now.”

 

Miller snorts. “Yeah, someone give her a Nobel Peace Prize.”

 

She elbows him roughly, before stealing his beer mug for a large swig. “At least _one_ of us here is having better luck in the dating game,” she announces once she’s had a generous dose of malted alcohol. “Eh, Blake?”

 

Oh. _Shit_.

 

“Um,” he says, heat flushing across his cheeks and all over the back of his neck. He cuts to Miller in a silent plea for help — but his best friend is wide-eyed and frozen, staring back at him in muted shock.

 

“Yeah, I texted Gina after I ran into you guys last week,” Raven continues, oblivious. “She said you guys have already been out a few times. Sounds like it’s going good, right?”

 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

 

He'd forgotten all about that one time Raven appeared in the coffee shop he and Gina were having their third date at. How the _fuck_ could he have forgotten the _one_ mutual acquaintance he has with his recently-broken-up-with ex?

 

“Oh, it’s going, all right,” he mutters under his breath, desperately avoiding everyone's gaze.

 

Monty frowns. “Say what?”

 

Bellamy clears his throat, looking up. “Nothing,” he says, pointedly ignoring Miller’s suspicious squint. “I mean, yeah, it’s not really anything. Yet. Too early to tell, you know? We’ll see.”

 

Clarke doesn't so much as glance at him, but something about the way her stare is boring into her beer glass at the other end of the booth makes him extremely uncomfortable.

 

To his relief, Raven merely shrugs. "Cool," she says, offhand, before diving into a continuation of her terrible date experience.

 

 

  
  
It's another three days before he even notices that the pranks have completely stopped on Clarke's end.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"Clarke?" he calls out when he gets home, peeling off his jacket. He hefts the white box in his hands, looking around as he heads for the kitchen. "Clarke, you home?"

 

"In my room," her voice calls back, muffled through the closed door.

 

"I got you something!" he yells, setting the box on top of the kitchen table and opening it with a satisfied grin. Inside the box, three large, golden-crusted apple strudels are staring back at him, fresh from Clarke's favourite bakery. "And no, this isn't another stupid prank, okay!" he says loudly when he hears her bedroom door creak open. "I mean, I'd swear on O's life, but she'd probably kill me herself if I did."

 

Clarke appears in the threshold, frowning at the box. "What is it?"

 

He uses two forks to pick one up, setting it on a plate before pushing it towards her. "Here, dig in. And, before you ask — they're completely laxative-free. Scout's honour."

 

She doesn't move from the doorway, arms still folded protectively over her middle. "What's the occasion?"

 

He shrugs, lifting another one out of the box for himself. "No occasion. Just happened to be a couple streets over. Thought I'd stop by."

 

That, and, Clarke's been spent the last couple of days more or less shut up in her room, with no sign of any new pranks coming his way. Juvenile prank war or not, he's not a _complete_ idiot. He can tell when she's clearly not feeling all that well.

 

Also, he was most definitely _not_ a couple streets over — but she doesn't need to know that.

 

She fidgets, her arms tightening over her middle. "Oh. Okay, well, since you're here, I have something to discuss with you." She clears her throat, brushing a rogue blonde curl out of her eyes. "To tell you, actually."

 

He closes the lid on the box, and sets it aside for Clarke to have the extra strudel whenever she wants. "What's up? You okay?"

 

"I'm moving out."

 

It takes him a couple extra seconds, but he looks up at her, blinking blankly.

 

"Huh?"

 

Clarke draws a deep breath, her gaze fixed firmly on the kitchen floor. "I know I've got another three months on the lease," she says carefully, her bare toes curling in on themselves, "but I've already started looking for another place. One of my old college friends is actually looking for a roommate — hers is getting married and moving out in a few weeks, so I'll probably move in with her when that happens." Her chin dips in a brisk nod. "So, yeah, you've got plenty of time to look for a new roommate. Or a new apartment, if you want to just give this one up."

 

Her gaze flicks up to him at last, roving hastily over his face before glancing away. "Or, you know, if you wanted to stay here, that's cool, too. Whatever you wanna do is fine."

 

He just stares at her, strudel forgotten.

 

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of his silent stare. "Don't worry about the rent or anything, I'll pay out the last three months on my half of the lease. I mean, unless you manage to find a new roommate by the—"

 

"Don't."

 

Clarke looks at him properly, then, her brows furrowing in confusion. "It's fine, Bellamy. I signed the lease, too. I can handle my end of the rent for—"

 

"No." He shakes his head. " _Don't_."

 

She peers at him, a deep crease forming in the middle of her forehead. "Well, it's not fair of me to just clear out and let you handle the rent all by _yourself_."

 

" _Clarke_." He takes a step towards her, his chest tight. "Don't leave."

 

Her entire body goes still, the slight frown of exasperation frozen in place on her face.

 

"Don't leave," he repeats, daring one more step closer. He swallows, shakes his head. "This— this isn't how it's supposed to go for us."

 

That seems to spark her back to life, her face scrunching in perplexed frustration. "What are you _talking_ about?" she demands. "We broke up, Bellamy — _three months_ ago. This is _exactly_ how it's supposed to go."

 

"How do you know?" His tone is too urgent, on the complete wrong side of rational calm, but he's too desperate to care. "How do you _know_ , Clarke?"

 

She rocks restlessly from one foot to the other, her frustration clearly ramped up a notch or two. "Because that's what people _do_ ," she snaps, yanking her arms free to plant her hands on her hips. "How is this even a _question_? _You're_ already dating someone else, aren't you?"

 

He's already shaking his head before she even gets to the end of her sentence. "It's over. Done." He barks a helpless laugh. "Fuck, Clarke, I don't think it ever even _started_."

 

Her jaw works soundlessly for a beat. "What does that even _mea_ —" She cuts herself off with an exasperated huff, shoving her bangs out of her eyes. "The point is, we need to move on. _Both_ of us."

 

"Who says that's always _right_?" he presses, inching even closer. "Maybe it's not always how things are _supposed_ to go. Maybe sometimes, people just aren't _supposed_ to move on." He throws his hands into the air. "Maybe sometimes, they just _like_ their peanut butter with jelly!"

 

She stares at him, her mouth hanging open.

 

After a long beat, she squeezes her eyes shut, fingers raking through her roots in agitated confusion. " _What?_ "

 

"I— never mind." He shakes his head again, taking another step towards her. "Fine. If you can look me in the eye, right here, right now, and tell me that you don't love me anymore, then—"

 

"I don't love you anymore," she cuts in, her shoulders drawn tight as the sharp blue of her eyes clashes with the warm brown of his.

 

It might have hurt, too — if he didn't know firsthand what an excellent liar Clarke can be when she puts her mind to it.

 

He crosses his arms over his chest, more confident now that he's got her full attention. "Then why are you still _here_."

 

She stares at him, her expression carefully blank. It doesn't matter much, though. The arrested look in her eyes is indication enough that he's got her cornered.

 

"All my DVDs are here."

 

He scoffs. "Try again."

 

"It's gonna be a bitch packing up all my brushes and paints."

 

He shakes his head. "Not good enough."

 

"I still haven't finished all of my DVR'd _MasterChef_ episodes."

 

He cocks a skeptical brow. "You already know the DJ wins. I saw you scrolling through Twitter the night of the finale."

 

She swallows, glancing around the room petulantly as if hoping the answer will drop into her lap. "Maybe I just wanted to torture you with a few stupid pranks."

 

His lips curve into a small smile, and he's finally close enough to reach out, brush his knuckles along the line of her jaw. "Yeah, me too."

 

She exhales, the breath leaving her lips as if in surrender, turning into his touch. "Shit. We're idiots, aren't we?"

 

"To be fair, this really isn't new information," he offers wryly, letting his hand curve around her neck, his fingers dipping into her hair right before he closes the last few inches of distance between their lips.

 

They're both grinning by the time they pull apart, their breaths falling warm on each other's lips.

 

"I still owe you for that bathroom prank, by the way," he tells her, one hand brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Leaving me stranded in my own bathroom, _naked_. Pure evil."

 

"Pure _genius_ ," she retorts, her eyes sparkling with delight. Her fingers dip under the hem of his shirt, nails raking lightly across his heated skin. "Well, you could always pay me back right now."

 

He leans in for another hard kiss, both of them smiling helplessly into it, before pulling back and turning her around. His hands squeeze eagerly on her hips as he starts them both towards the bedroom. "Oh, yeah, you're definitely gonna be naked for a good long while. And don't even think of calling Miller to come rescue you."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"I swear to God, you two are giving me whiplash" is the first thing Octavia says when they walk into the coffee shop two days later, hand in hand.

 

Bellamy grins, but he obediently accepts the affectionately exasperated hug she pulls him into. "I thought you already knew everything, O Emotionally Competent And Self-aware One."

 

"Shut up," his sister orders, releasing Clarke from her turn at a congratulatory embrace. She waves a vague hand at the blonde's scrunched nose. "We'll explain everything in a bit. Go grab a table, I'll order for us."

 

"Does this, by any chance, have anything to do with that stuff you were grumbling about under your breath a few weeks ago?" Clarke asks as they settle into chairs around a small table by the window. "Your grumpy, twenty-minute spiel about celery sticks?"

 

His cheeks heat, and he scratches at the back of his neck self-consciously. "How the hell did you know that?"

 

She shrugs, working her arms out of her jacket. "In that case, I think I'm all caught up." She rolls her eyes at his questioning frown. "I got the same lecture from Raven last week. Apparently, I have the emotional sensibility of an overripe banana."

 

"Look at that," he says, grinning widely. "We're practically meant to be."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, as always! hope you liked it =) 
> 
> kudos/comments are always MUCHO appreciated
> 
> new year, old [tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com)


End file.
